


En Avant

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is close to achieving his dream position in The Royal Ballet Company, but when everything comes crashing down, he needs John Watson to set him right again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entrée

**Author's Note:**

> Here is it, the first chapter of my balletlock fic!
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely and wonderful beta's: [Felicia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/), [Jordan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense) and [May](http://http://eyyopatrick.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I'll try to update as quickly as I can, but for now I won't have a regular updating schedule. 
> 
> Rating might go up (but I like a slow burn, so buckle up and enjoy the ride), and I'll add tags as we go!
> 
> <3

“Sherlock!” Molly called out to him as he passed her on his way to the Fonteyn studio. She was in the process of breaking in her new pointe shoes, cutting elastics and sewing on ribbons. Even though the Royal Opera House studios were always toasty, she was wearing a purple hoodie and leg warmers. “I saw on the schedule you’re up tonight? That’s great, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m on my way to rehearsal now, actually. Why aren’t you?” He watched as she poured shellac in one of the shoes to strengthen the box, the smell of it burning in his nose.

“Oh, I’m expected in about half an hour,” she replied, swirling the shoe to distribute the strong lacquer evenly. “They’ve been messing with the casting because of illness, so some of the girls need to be fitted again and are in costume now.” She sounded matter-of-fact, but Sherlock could tell Molly was disappointed for not being picked to dance a bigger part. She’d been in the corps de ballet for a while now, and was hoping to get promoted soon.

Sherlock himself had graduated straight into the company from the Royal Ballet School. In the two years he’d been with the company, he had spent a very short amount of time in the corps de ballet, rapidly climbing through the ranks. He was just promoted to first soloist before their autumn season started, which was unsurprising, really. It had landed him a nice role in The Nutcracker, a classic and a crowd favourite, which was scheduled around Christmas every year.

Although most of the other artists in the company were jealous and envied his smooth rise to the top, Molly had always been encouraging and slightly starstruck. She was the closest thing he had to a friend in the Royal Ballet, but friendship was not his area. He briefly considered telling her she had to work on her technique, that her footwork wasn’t clean enough, and her turnout could be better. She could be lovely on stage, though, he mused as he watched Molly carefully set the pointe shoe aside and start on the second one. Her movements were sweet and delicate, and she had a good ear for music. But if he told her that, her nervous jittering around him would only get worse. He decided against saying any of it, and opted to hum in response.

Molly looked up at him hesitantly. “Maybe, after the show we could…”

Yes, it was wise not to give her compliments, Sherlock thought to himself.

“Sorry, Molly, I’ve got to dash,” he interrupted her clumsy proposal, turning away to leave. “You’re spilling shellac on the floor, by the way.”  

“Oh!” She hastily adjusted the leaking shoe, her cheeks flaming. “Right, of course. Good luck with rehearsal and I’ll see you tonight, then!”

Sherlock was already halfway across the hall, only waving a hand in reply.

***

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. Behind the heavy velvet curtains, the seats of the Royal Opera House auditorium were filling up rapidly and the place was buzzing with excitement. They were dancing a mixed programme tonight, which was always popular with the crowds. Sherlock was only dancing a pas de deux, but it would be enough.

The show would start in a few minutes. He checked his costume one last time, making sure it was comfortable. It had been fitted earlier that day, since the casting change was only announced that morning. Luckily, it was a simple costume: white tights, a billowing white shirt and a cream coloured waistcoat on top. He was a bit taller than Sebastian, but it worked.

Across the stage he could see Molly in the wings, waiting with the other dancers of the corps de ballet, their costumes rustling softly while they flexed their ankles and adjusted the ribbons of their pointe shoes. She waved at him and gave a thumbs-up, her earlier embarrassment already forgotten.

Her enthusiasm made him smile, and he awkwardly copied the gesture. It made her blush again, but this time with pleasure instead of embarrassment.

The cacophony produced by the tuning orchestra was fading, and an expectant silence fell over the auditorium. The last stagehands cleared the stage and the director signaled to them before disappearing backstage again.

This was it.

***

Sherlock watched Molly and the rest of the corps dancing a complicated choreography, their tutus glittering in the lights.

He shifted his feet while anxiety curled in his belly. He ignored it. It was ridiculous; he had been on stage countless times before. He knew the part, as he was Sebastian’s understudy, and he and Kate had been practising almost as much as Irene and Sebastian.

“Are you ready?” A small pale hand on his shoulder accompanied Irene Adler’s smooth voice. She moved to stand next to him, but didn’t remove her hand.

“It’s too bad for Sebastian, but I’m sure you and I will be dancing together a lot more in future.” She winked at him.

“I’m sure we will,” Sherlock replied, sounding more confident than he felt.

Irene was undoubtedly the company’s favourite female principal. Her stage presence was phenomenal, and he knew dancing with her tonight would be the push he needed to secure his position. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for since he became a soloist. Sebastian’s wife couldn’t have picked a better time to give birth, really; he should probably send her a thank you note in the morning.

Sebastian wasn’t a bad dancer, but the point was that Sherlock was _better_ , and he couldn’t wait to prove it. The Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux was absolutely perfect: a fantastic bravura piece to show off his impeccable technique. He couldn’t have wished for better circumstances.

Sebastian was adequate in it, in the sense that he more or less managed to assist Irene on stage. It was a fact that anyone dancing with Irene would try their best, if only to impress her. Even Sebastian, happily married to that girl from the costume department who was having his baby at this very moment, wasn’t immune to Irene’s attractions. He wasn’t alone in this, almost the complete male staff of The Royal Ballet wanted to get Irene’s attention, displaying some embarrassing courting rituals in the process.

And his luck, Sherlock knew, was that he _didn’t_ want Irene, which made her work harder for his affection. Although Sherlock was well aware of Irene’s preferences, she was the kind of woman who wanted all eyes on her, no matter what. He made sure to give her just enough attention to keep her on the tips of her toes, and she was not disappointing him. She had been looking forward to dancing with him as well.

During their last-minute stage practice earlier, he already noticed it was working. _They_ were working. After a few run-throughs the répétiteur who was coaching them just stood back in awe.  

Now, Irene was making a show of checking her own costume, a soft pink dress with a flowing skirt and a low cut bodice. Her dark hair was pinned back in a complicated updo, decorated with pearls. They were both wearing stage makeup, so as not to appear washed out by the lights, but Irene had added a bright red lipstick and a smokey eye to highlight her features. She smiled coyly when she caught him staring, and Sherlock cursed himself for falling into her little trap after all.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. You know I don’t mind you looking,” she teased, turning for him slowly, her arms in an elegant port de bras, mimicking a ballerina in a music box. He rolled his eyes at her, already used to her flirtatious nature.

The first time Sherlock had seen Irene perform, it was in the production of Manon, back when he was still in Upper School himself. Now, after spending some time with her in the company, he knew the role of Manon had Irene written all over it. She had been amazing as the sensual gold-digging Manon Lescaut, who had a hard time choosing between love and money. Her interpretation of Manon was flirty, finding pleasure in the power she had over all her suitors, but at the same time desperate and dramatic during the last act where her foolish lover dies in her arms.

The critics had been absolutely falling over each other to award her with all the superlatives they could muster, and she had received a standing ovation on opening night. Even Sherlock had been captivated by her performance.

The ballet world was tough, and she’d managed to navigate it with ease. Sherlock could only respect that in her, and he was counting on her now.

This would be the night. He was suddenly sure of it.

He would become the youngest male principal in the history of the Royal Ballet.

 ****  


***


	2. Battu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual: many thanks to my lovely and wonderful beta's: [Felicia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/), [Jordan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense) and [May](http://http://eyyopatrick.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> <3

The orchestra began playing the soft tones of Tchaikovsky’s score. Irene readied herself, squeezing Sherlock’s bicep once before she stepped onstage. The light skirt floated around her legs with a slow grace, as if she were underwater. Her steps were precise and clean, contrasting nicely with the movement of the fabric. Sherlock was still impressed by how easy she made it all look, even though he could see the concentration behind her smile.

It was his cue to get on stage and he felt his mind pulling his focus away from his surroundings; it was just his body, Irene, and the music. He was aware of the audience behind the glaring stage lights, but he could only see the deep dark void of the theater and it was easy to dismiss. His mind properly focused, Sherlock let his body take over. His muscle memory was trained to perfection and there was no need to think about the order of the steps anymore, leaving his mind free to make sure each movement was executed flawlessly.

The choreography was difficult and demanding, but both Irene and Sherlock loved it. This piece was made to show off, and they were doing a great job of it. Irene’s fouette turns were magnificent, as were his own jumps and leaps, and they each took turns displaying their skills.

Sherlock loved being in control of his body, his mind dictating in detail what it should do, where it should go, what muscles to flex. For him, it was about his brain being able to steer his body. To dance well was a mental exercise. The body could be trained and stretched and fed, but if the mind was weak, the body would never follow.

Now, he let the music dictate his steps, curving his arm around Irene’s waist to assist her when she turned. Every moment was calculated and practiced, but made to appear natural and easy. Irene’s eyes sparkled when she looked at him as she rotated. The fish dives were coming up.

While most of the choreography was enough to wow a crowd, the fish dives of this particular piece were real show-stoppers. Irene had to run and jump and Sherlock had to catch her mid-way and dip her so low her head almost touched the stage. There was a whole series of them, and it had such a manic and dramatic feeling, he was sure the audience would react. They had practiced these all afternoon, because it was crucial he caught her without hurting her ribs and, of course, without actually dropping her in the process.

The fish dives went perfectly, as he knew they would. Sherlock heard faint gasps from the audience, but he paid no real attention to them. He needed all his concentration to move correctly. He felt triumphant nonetheless.

He was getting ready to lift Irene one last time to carry her offstage, a dramatic exit to end their performance, when he saw sudden movement in the wings. Distracted for a split second, he wasn’t positioned exactly right for Irene and while he steeled himself to lift her weight, he already knew it was wrong. It was too late to do something about it, his body moving before his brain caught up, and he felt his hand slip a little on Irene’s bodice as he pushed her up. The next moment seemed to last forever, suspended in time. The lights were blinding and behind their painful glare, the gaping blackness of the seats, where he knew rows and rows of people were about to witness this small disaster. Sherlock felt his back give out and everything collapsed around him.

  


***

 

Sherlock had imagined the moment countless times. The director would come to his dressing room, followed by the Ballet Master and Mistress and Mrs. Hudson - their guest teacher and a former principal - and they would all be glowing with pride and offer him a position as principal. That was how it was supposed to go, and he was sure that was what would have happened tonight.

Instead of in his dressing room, he was still on stage, lying on his back and waiting for someone to check his injuries. The stage manager had closed the curtains to give him some privacy. The humiliation was bad enough without an audience. He would have walked off stage himself if he could, but he didn’t dare move.

After an agonising minute, Mike crouched next to him. His kind round face made Sherlock feel less anxious, and after a cursory once over, he helped Sherlock up. Once he was settled in the wings he was offered an ice pack and told wait so he could get a thorough examination.

First Mike had to check up on Irene while she kept insisting she was fine, thank you very much. She was furious with Sherlock for dropping her, because even the hint of weakness or injury would get the whole corps de ballet buzzing with excitement. Luckily for her, Mike deemed her fit to leave the stage of her own accord, which she did promptly.

This was not an ideal situation for a promotion, but despite the unfortunate end of their performance, they still had danced beautifully, and he hoped the reviews would not give in to the supposed drama. If he were lucky, word of his promotion would get out in time to make in into the reviews. He hoped he would dance his first principal role soon, so this could be forgotten.

The stage director had quickly decided to let the show go on after the short break, since Sherlock and Irene had finished their routine, and the next part of the programme would be the last of the evening. The music had just started when Mike quietly made his way over to Sherlock again.

“Look, we need to get you to hospital, Sherlock,” he said apologetically after his checkup.

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll be fine, really, there’s no need. I have everything right here.” He gestured with the ice pack and pressed it against his ankle more firmly.

Mike fixed him with a stern look over the rim of his glasses. “If it was just the ankle, I would have taken care of it myself, but your back...we can’t take the risk. You know this, Sherlock. You need at least an x-ray, maybe an MRI. Get that ankle checked as well, while you’re there, to be sure.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wanting this whole situation to go away and leave him alone.

“You’re going to hospital, and that’s that. I’ll make arrangements.” Mike grabbed his phone and went to the hall so as not to disturb the dancers, leaving Sherlock to ice his ankle in solitude.

 

***

 

The Royal Ballet had connections to specialised doctors and surgeons, who were well acquainted with the ways of ballet dancers. Sherlock found that it was no use trying to hide the severity of his injuries or pretending certain movements didn’t hurt.

It turned out his ankle was sprained, but the problem with his lower back was more complicated.  They couldn’t tell how severe the injury was without the results of the scan. In the meantime, the doctor told him, he needed to rest both his ankle and back. Then he would probably need physiotherapy, and the duration of that would depend how his back was doing.

Back pain wasn’t uncommon for male dancers. It was similar to female dancers and their feet suffering from dancing on pointe shoes. It came with the job, having parts of your body hurt all the time. Ankles, knees, feet, toes, back. As long as you could still move and stand, it wasn’t a problem. You would dance.

The ankle was already wrapped in bandages, and they’d given him crutches so he wouldn’t have to put his weight on it. The doctor looked doubtfully at Sherlock when it was clear he couldn’t move his spine without pain.

“I’ll send the results to Mr. Stamford as soon as they’re available. We are light on staff this time of night, but I expect to have them tomorrow. He will advise you on further treatment. Spare your back until then, alright? Your ankle will be fine in a few days, I expect.”

He prescribed some painkillers, and Mike drove Sherlock home in silence. Sherlock looked at the glow of the streetlamps and thought about the stage lights, bright and hot and home.

 

***

 

Sherlock woke up and found it was still just as painful to twist or bend his spine as it was the night before. His ankle was throbbing dully. Laying on his sore back, he stared at the ceiling. His fingers worried at the stitching of his blanket. Some of the few body parts he could move without hurting. The thought made him want to rip the fabric apart, to show he was still in control of everything. But the truth was that body had betrayed him and all his careful planning had come to nothing.

Finally he decided to go to the Opera House and wait for the results there. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. They might still promote him if he showed up today and he could start rehearsing for a principal role as soon as next week. He would not give up on his dream that easily.

His room was littered with papers and ballet flats, books and leotards, and he carefully picked his way over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He’d have to take a cab; the crutches already bothered him after just a few hours.

When he arrived, morning class had started without him. Sherlock hadn’t missed a class since he’d started at the company.

He tried not to think about it, and made his way up to Mike’s office.

  


***

 

Sherlock observed the lounge, the crutches leaning against the wall next to him. There were other dancers around, having lunch or resting in between rehearsals, but he made sure to look as moody as possible so nobody would dare to approach him. Mike had told him he needed to rest first and start physiotherapy next week. It would take some time, because they couldn’t risk his back not healing properly. Mike would inform the Director and Ballet Masters and they would all just go on without him for as long as it would take.

He knew he should go home and rest, but he found it hard to leave the building, not being used to being useless. But there was nothing more for him to do.  

Going to the Fonteyn studio first, he watched the rehearsal through the window. It was already frustrating to be here, on the outside of things.

Mrs. Hudson came up to him once she had spotted him, taking in his crutches and patting his shoulder lightly. She followed his gaze, fixed on the couple practicing a pas de deux.

“It’s alright, dear. I’m sure you will be in there again soon.” She studied his face for a minute. “Maybe it’s good that you have a bit of a break.”

Sherlock huffed. “A break? What are you talking about? How is that ever a good thing? When… If I am principal, I won’t have time for breaks, will I? I didn’t work this hard to take a break!”

“Sherlock,” she said carefully, “we were not going to give you a promotion last night, you know, even if you’d not gotten injured.”

He looked at her with wide eyes.

“But…”

“Your technique is fantastic, you know that,” she interrupted him gently. “We can all see it. That is not an issue. But ballet is so much more than just moving in a certain way. It’s not your skill we’re worried about, dear. It’s your heart.”

 

***

 

Empty and slow, the next few days dragged by. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with himself. He was so used to dancing for hours every day and the constant chaos of the studios, his apartment seemed alien to him. The Royal Opera House was his home.

The words Mrs. Hudson had told him were on constant repeat in his mind, as if to taunt him. Not only was he injured now, he apparently wasn’t good enough regardless. He didn’t understand what the problem was. Surely ballet was all about controlling the body, mastering it, making it work with the music and making a choreography come to life?

He didn’t know what hearts had to do with it at all. Sentiment made you weak, and if there was one rule in this world it was survival of the fittest. He learned that the hard way.

Mrs. Hudson meant well, but she didn’t understand his point of view. Very few people did. He would show them, though.

Sherlock was determined he would survive, whatever it took.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux is from the choreographer Balanchine, and it's pretty hard to find (a good version) online because his works are protected. In general I based my depiction on this version, although I've seen versions during my research where the fish dives are way more dramatic than here: https://youtu.be/zRLulvgeASw


End file.
